


It but all the gays live this time

by allegedly_writing, backwardstypos



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Car Accidents, F/M, Gen, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicide Attempt, actually everyone but Georgie lives sorry Georgie, gay guys in the beginning live, just as much as in canon but i felt it needed to be added, light Violence, we rewrote the script basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegedly_writing/pseuds/allegedly_writing, https://archiveofourown.org/users/backwardstypos/pseuds/backwardstypos
Summary: Mike’s known for a long time that this day was coming, somewhere deep inside of him. Beyond the sense of unease lies a sense of clarity.He has a few calls to make.
Relationships: Beverly Marsh/Ben Hascom, Eddie Kraspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Bill Denbrough, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, slowburn - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> gays will watch a horror movie and go hm not enough trauma resolution it's us we're gays
> 
> co-authored by Jack who has neither a tumblr or an ao3 so rip to him I guess
> 
> EDIT: Jack has an ao3 now, as you can now see

Mike is excited to hear about the carnival coming to town, to say the least. More than a grown man probably should be, but new things seem so rare among Derry’s stagnating attitude; he’ll take what he can get. _Maybe he just wants to see other people, get lost in a crowd after spending the week in the sometimes-too-quiet of the library and the imposing solitude of his own upstairs apartment._

When the last few people at the library pack up near-but-not-quite at the end of the day, he locks up early behind him and joins the trickle of people heading towards the brightly colored tents and just visible flashing lights against the dying day’s sky. 

It’s almost blindingly bright up close when Mike arrives, and he settles himself to have a migraine by the end of this. He wanders from booth to booth, looking idly around, hands in his pockets, but feeling once again out of place even among the sea of bodies. _At least no one’s eyeing him, no corner of the eye glances designed to be felt but not seen._

Mike meanders through the growing crowd for about an hour, watching the sunset in a burst of orange and eyeing the prizes in the game booths to see if anything is worth testing his luck. Among the dark of the new night, Mike feels a ball of unease settle low in his gut; familiar enough to not be excused from bad carnival food. It doesn’t matter where he goes in Derry, the feeling stays. He wonders if nobody else can even feel it, or if they can and they’re choosing to ignore it. 

It sticks with him game booth to game booth, all the way to the top of the ferris wheel. Mike sits there for the ride, looking out over the pitch black of the rest of Derry; the carnival may be bright and loud but the rest of Derry is a dead silence that causes goosebumps to pop up on Mikes arms in the humid summer night. 

The whole night, the sounds and lights and laughter of other people feel like they’re beginning to close in on him as he climbs out of his solo seat of the ferris wheel when it makes its way back down. He looks around at the now very crowded fairgrounds, and heads back towards the entrance to the park, feeling suddenly exhausted. The night weighs on him more and more as he walks further and further from the main mass of crowd.

It’s been getting closer for some time now, he can feel it. Stronger too. 

Mike starts to leave the carnival entirely when he starts to hear…something. The sense of unease grows stronger, pushing his heart to double time. He scans his surroundings quickly, feeling suddenly like a trapped animal about to be slaughtered. His eyes snap to a commotion outside of the boundaries of the fair, on the old bridge. 

There’s a gang of young men midway down the bridge, all converging together into a violent huddle, kicking and stomping _something_ into the ground. They’re too far away for him to make out direct words but they’re all shouting and laughing in unpleasant barks and aggressive sneers; something that sounded far uglier than friends having a good time together. 

It doesn’t take Mike long to figure out what’s going on when he sees the too familiar shine of too much blood on the ground, reflecting the carnival’s rainbow lights, and the shape of two more figures lying prone in between the crowd of men. 

Reacting now totally on autopilot, unease forgotten in favour of blind adrenaline he grabs the nearest thing to him, a plastic bat probably meant for one of the game booths. Wielding it with both hands, wishing it had more heft to it, he charges towards the group. _Fuck this is such a_ stupid _idea but he has to try, because he knows no one else is going to help._

“Hey! HEY!” he shouts, holding the bat over his head and trying to look as intimidating as he can, hoping the dark night hides the fact that the bat he’s waving is a toy. 

The bluff, amazingly, works and the group of teens scatter like a pack of roaches as he comes barreling over, leaving the two men they’d been attacking behind on the ground. 

Mike drops the bat at his feet, dropping down in a skid on his knees to look them over, wincing at what he saw; Both of them were bruised and bloody, one much worse than the other, with an abandoned inhaler on the road next to them, soaking in a pool of blood. They were both clearly still breathing though, to his relief, and he put a hand on the better off’s shoulder,

“Are you—” He starts, and stops just as quickly, staring out across the river. The other man follows Mike’s gaze.

Mike can see It. In all of the 27 years he’s been in Derry he hadn’t seen It since that summer but now he’s looking out across the river _and he can see It._ Only for a second, like a flash of light, like teeth gleaming in a grin in the darkness. The swell of dread within his chest tightens as a voice invades his head. 

_Bring them home Mikey. You know I’ve been waiting. I won’t wait any longer._

And just like that, it’s gone from sight. The other side of the river is empty. Mike shakes his head like he can clear that voice out that easily, and puts his attention back on the two men as one of them sputters weakly. 

“P-Please, my boyfriend, he needs his inhaler.” He manages to get out around a mouthful of blood. Mike, still riding on autopilot, snatches the inhaler from where it sits, the dried blood feels tacky against his fingers. 

He calls the ambulance and stays with the two of them until it shows up, sitting on the dark stretch of road and trying to provide whatever comfort he can. The less beaten up of the two is able to sit up. Then he’s alone again, and for the first time in a very long while he really, truly hopes that he’s actually alone. 

_I won’t wait any longer._

He’s known for a long time that this day was coming, somewhere deep inside of him. Beyond the sense of unease lies a sense of clarity. 

He has a few calls to make.


	2. I Don't Want to Think Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike has some calls to make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes out to jack's cat, who had to have surgery, and jack went "you know what goes with the ambiance of a vet waiting room? bill's section" 
> 
> his cat is fine
> 
> chapter title from lady gaga's "telephone"

Bev wakes up before dawn, just like every single other night since she was, what, thirteen? It had started like the jolt a nightmare when she was younger. Now though, it just feels like a vague impending sense of dread that she can’t remember or name. Something grins in the dark and she isn’t sure she even wanted to turn on the late and see it.

The only thing she’s thankful for as she shakes the sleep out of her eyes is that Tom is out of town, at some business event in New York. He always hated when she woke him up by accident. Blinking the last bits of sleep out of her eyes, she reaches for a cigarette. Another little victory, he hates the smell. The rain falls softly outside the window and the sound helps lull her down.

The ring of her phone jolts her and she drops the pack to the ground. _Shit_. The swell of guilty panic takes her for only a second, until she sees the number isn’t his. No, it's unknown. She answers it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Beverly?” An unfamiliar man's voice immediately puts her on edge.

“I’m sorry, who’s this?”

“It’s Mike, Mike Hanlon. From Derry.”

“I don’t...I think you might have the wrong number.” Something stops her from hanging up like she normally would. It’s not the first time some weirdo has gotten her personal number. The name Derry is...very familiar.

“You grew up there, do you remember?” She thinks, really thinks, for a minute but there’s nothing.

“You made a promise, Beverly,” he says after she doesn’t respond. It’s not said as an accusation but she feels suddenly guilty anyway.

“I’m - I’m sorry Mike. I don’t even really remember.” She trails off. Her childhood itself was a blur and a series of blanks, but based on her nightmares she’s more than happy to leave it that way.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why you can’t seem to remember the things most people should? About where they’re from, about who they are, why you have that scar on your hand?” Everything stops at that. The sound of the rain fades away and all she can do is look at the palm of her right hand and the thick scar running down the middle.

“It’s all right that you don’t remember. I know you can, we all made a promise to Bill” Mike sounds deeply, deeply sad at this and she knows that he remembers.

“Bill?” She pauses, looking again at the slash down her hand. _It had been a warm summer day and she had let Bill take her hand and slice it deep, deep down the middle and let the blood flow forward. She’d seen a version of it every night, only the blood never stopped flowing and Bill was gone and IT was there and It was always there and-_

“You have to come back. You all do.” Mike's voice pulls her out of her head.

“When?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll see you, Beverly.” He hangs up before she has time to say anything. Almost entirely on reflex she stands up, letting the hand holding her phone fall to her side, and begins to tear apart her closet to look for the packed bag way in the back, under the spare fabric she brings home but never uses.

_If she’s moving she won’t think about It, if she’s moving she won’t think about IT - won’t think about how badly she and Tom had fought before, a fight that ended with his hands around her neck, again._

She shudders, cutting off her own manic train of thought. _If she’s moving she won’t think about It._ She finds the packed suitcase, grabs the handle with one hand and heaves it past the piles of flashy, fashionable clothes; the other hand she's checked the bookmark of the nearest airport and there’s a flight to Derry leaving at noon. She’s all ready to leave, so why is she still standing here like a lost little girl, staring at the ring on her hand?

 _If she’s moving she won’t think about It_.

In one swift motion she pulls the ring off and sets it on her bedside table. Taking a last look at her room, she grabs her packed-full bag and starts downstairs. She has a flight to catch.

//

A pulse beats itself steadily on the inside of Richie’s skull — _onetwothree onetwoTHREE_ — right before he vomits all over the comedy club’s back entrance.

“God fuck. Okay, yeah okay,” Richie mumbles to himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, hunched over and really feeling that fourth vodka tonic.

He hears the door behind him open again, a quick blast of raucous laughter from the act after his only worsening the pounding headache before it clicks back shut.

“Hey, Richie, man are you okay?” Asks Steve, his manager and… _just his manager_.

“Uhh, I mean you know me and my aftershow routines, right?” Richie jokes, desperately hiding how much he just wants to crash on his shitty hotel bed, “Just clearing the pipes and all,” he mimes a cough that very quickly turns into a series of real ones, spittle and stomach acid joining the vomit on the ground.

“Jesus, Richie!” Steve says, rubbing his back. Richie quickly finishes his dying man impression, and rises from the awkward hunch he bent himself in, feeling each one of his forty years in the clicks of his spine.

“I’m good, man, I’m great. Don’t even worry about me.” Richie knows the smile he shoots towards Steve doesn’t reach his eyes but he’s not worried, Steve has never looked him in the eyes.

“I mean...if you say you are,” Steve answers easily back, the scripted end to the show they put on for themselves every week after every show, _are you good? yes? good._

Steve slaps him on the back, his hand lingering too long as he glances, briefly, at Richies mouth before glancing at the technicolor vomit all over the doormat, “maybe head back to the hotel early tonight, yeah?” He says, already opening the door to the club again. Richie nods halfheartedly, watching him go.

_Damn. Ugh._

His extremely intelligent line of thought is interrupted by the buzzing of his phone in his jeans pocket; fishing it out, he scans the number quickly.

_Unknown from Maine?_

He hits answer, bringing it up to his ear in time to hear “Richie? Hey, this is Mike Hanlon. From Derry?”

“I don’t know man, my childhood’s pretty hazy, you know? All that good Maine brain rot. I don’t know anyone named Mike,” Richie trips out, through the sudden pounding of his heart.

“You do. Remember the Losers? IT?” Mike tries, “...Eddie?” _The losers Bowers the blood pact MikeBillBevBenStanEddie IT. Oh._

With each passing second Richie can feel his heart beat thrice in his palms where he’s clutching the phone so hard he’s worried he’ll break it. He swallows thickly, “...Yeah. I remember.”

“Good, because I need you to come back to Derry,” Mike says, barely audible over the rushing in his ears joining in with the pulse in his hands to make a beat — _onetwothree onetwoTHREE_ — right before he vomits again.

//

He’s been looking at this page for hours. He’s sure of it. It’s literally the last page of his new novel and he can’t think of another goddamn word. He lets out a frustrated breath that drags quickly into a groan, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples. His laptop is laughing at him, he swears.

It’s like this every time. The new ideas are easy, the beginning is easy, the middle is easy, the end is _impossible_. Eventually, extremely frustrated, he would jot down whatever first came to mind and call it a day.

That is, until the reviews come in. They always sound the same.

_“It was great until the end!”_

_“Another strong piece from Mr. Denbrough, with another weak Denbrough ending.”_

_“⅘ stars, an emotional and compelling piece with a frustrating lack of closure.”_

He usually stops reading after that point. It’s a bit of a drain, if he’s being honest. He used to really enjoy his writing, would revel in the words flowing onto the page, but now it feels like a thankless chore. So, that’s why he’s staring at the page, arms folded, waiting for the stupid thing to write itself.

“Bill? Earth to Bill.” Bills head snaps up to find Audra standing in front of him. Somehow he _never_ notices when she comes into his trailer. Which she’s been doing more and more frequently.

“Huh?”

“I said are you done with the pages?” She’s looking at him like she already knows the answer. They’ve been married for years, his writing habits aren’t lost on her.

“No,” he sighs. She raises an eyebrow at him, she knew the answer but she’s disappointed in him anyway. Like most people.

“You said you needed another day. It’s been two days Bill, we can’t keep waiting forever.” _Who’s we?_ He wants to ask. She’s started saying it more and more recently, _we_ can't do this, _we_ can't do that. She almost never said _we_ before they moved to California, and it’s not lost on him. He puts on a smile anyway.

“Look, I still have like, seventeen hours until today’s over. I can finish it, trust me.” He’s probably lying, at the rate he’s going he’s gonna need two weeks to finish. And whatever he produces won’t be half as good as people want it to be.

“Okay, whatever you say.” She looks like she’s about to leave, but a question nags at the back of his mind.

“Audra?”

“Yeah?” She turns back around to look at him and he suddenly feels very, very stupid. She’s his wife, he knows the answer already.

“Do you like my endings? Or even, I don’t know, one of them?”

“Bill, nobody likes your endings.”

“Right, yeah I know. Thanks, dear,” His phone starts to buzz in his pocket and he gladly takes the distraction. Audra in turn takes it as her sign to leave and she does, shutting the trailer door behind her.

“Bill Denbrough? It’s Mike” A deep voice asks, sending a shiver through his brain. _Jesus_ , that voice. He knows damn well this has to be a wrong number; he doesn’t know any Mikes, and there’s no way he would forget a voice like that.

“Mike who?”

“Mike Hanlon. From Derry.” There’s a surge of pain directly to his temples, like when the sun shines directly into his eyes and he flinches. The palm of his hand burns violently all of a sudden and he hisses through his teeth. Bill’s eyes skate over his hand and pause when he sees the long, deeply faded scar right in the center, splitting his entire hand in two. It confuses him. He’s never seen it before, and it’s not the kind of thing someone just...just forgets.

“You need to come home Bill.” Mike's voice is firm but not harsh. It all hits him like a freight train. _The glass slicing through the thick of his palm, spilling blood down the side of his hand. The blood pact. It. The losers. Mike._

“Bill?” Mike’s voice snaps him back into reality and he clenches his fist tightly.

“Y-Yeah?”

“I need you here by tomorrow. Can you make it?” Mike asks. Bill lets his hand fall to his side. He knows there’s only one answer. An oath is an oath, after all, as the newly appeared scar on his palm reminds him.

“Okay.”

//

Ben is probably the only person in the entire world who likes being at work more than he likes coming home. At work he’s someone important. He’s the _boss_. He’s someone who worked himself up from the bottom. They had just finished another massive architectural deal to start construction in the spring. He was just getting home from a meeting running late actually, finalizing all the details. He’s a big name, coming home to his lovely custom designed house, after a job well done.

But at home, it doesn’t matter who he is. Not really, because he’s always on his own.

It’s no different when he comes home this time, dropping his suit jacket unceremoniously onto his bed. He follows after it, flopping onto his back. The sound was almost uncomfortably loud in the relative quiet. All he can hear is the clock ticking in his kitchen. The kitchen downstairs.

Maybe he should get a dog, he ponders. Just to have something to come home to. With nobody around to watch, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and withdraws his wallet, flicking it open. The act feels childishly secretive, even in the privacy of his own home.

The tiny, worn, folded scrap of paper was in its usual place. For as long as he can remember he’s had it, tucked away somewhere safe, somewhere close to him. He doesn’t even really remember how, or when, he got it. But to throw it away feels deeply, deeply wrong.

His phone rings after only a minute in the quiet and he answers quickly without even checking the number. If someone wants to call him back to the office, who’s he to refuse?

“Hello?”

“Ben? It’s Mike Hanlon. From Derry.” A deep voice from the other end inquires. It catches him off guard, this isn’t someone from his job. He checks the caller ID and sure enough, Derry Maine. Unknown number.

“I’m sorry?” Mike wh-Oh. _Oh_.” Everything seems to slam into him all at once. His stomach and palm burn with dual intensity and for a moment he’s too caught in the pain to say anything and his eyes hit the piece of paper once more.

He’s seen it too many times to count, but somehow looking at it again brings back a rush of memories. _Derry, The losers, summer, It, Beverly...Beverly._

“I need you here by tomorrow. Can you do that?” Ben blinks and realizes that Mike has asked him a question, and the line is silent while he tries to think of a coherent answer.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” He says almost on autopilot. He vaguely hears Mike say goodbye and hang up, but his head is ringing and nothing is really sticking. Besides the feeling of the paper between his fingers and the name written on it in faded pen.

He pulls out his phone and looks for the next available flight to Derry. The only thing that sticks in his racing mind is Beverly. It fills him with a deep sense of anxiety and apprehension, but above all that is the feeling of _promise_.

//

“Yes, _thank_ you Myra.” Eddie says as he’s handed his eggs and toast with a side of his morning pills as soon as he shuffles into the kitchen.

“Of course, Eddie bear.” Myra returns, nodding at the meal, “eat up! You know eating breakfast can prevent type 2 diabetes and improve your blood sugar levels, as well as add years to your life,” Myra continues. Eddie sits at the kitchen table, eating in silence while he listens to her go on. He stares idly at the pills on his plate — _anti-anxiety, anti-depressant, heart meds, and a side of fish oil capsules_ — and swallows them down all at the same time with a swig of orange juice.

Eddie polishes off the eggs and then stands, ready to be out of the house for the day.

He walks over to the sink, shuffling along in his poorly-tailored slacks, listening to Myra bustle around in the other room in preparation for her — who knows, book club?

“I’m off, Myra!” He says from the hall, shoes already on and briefcase in hand, his goodbye more of an afterthought, — _one foot already out the door_ — when Myra comes from where she was still in the kitchen,

“Have a good day Eddie bear! Remember we have therapy later tonight,” she says, coming in to give Eddie a kiss on the cheek.

“Of course, Myra. I’ll pick you up for it at seven.” Eddie mumbles to the wall next to the console by the door, before spotting the pill carrier Myra insists on him carrying, half-buried under a pile of her mail. He turns, hip cocked against the table, and kisses Myra back, a quick peck by most standards, but Eddie knew it was the most they’d touched in days. He reaches behind him and shuffles the mail to completely cover the carrier.

“See you then, Myra!” he says, opening the door behind him and leaving with just a hint of a spring in his step.

He makes it across the heavily manicured lawn, into his car, out of the development, and is about to merge into the heavy inner New York traffic when he gets a call from Myra. Eddie thinks about letting it go to voicemail for all of a second before he remembers the hassle it caused last time he bothered trying to ignore his wife.

“Yes _hello_ , Myra,” he says, putting the phone on speaker and letting it rest on his leg.

“Eddie bear! You seemed to have forgotten your meds today!” She says as soon as the call connects, “I’ll have to bring them in to you at work.” Eddie swears as a cab cuts him off, “Eddie! Are you being careful?” Myra exclaims, a jingle in the background that says to Eddie that she was serious about meeting him at work. Eddie looks to where he had taken off his wedding ring, in the cupholder.

“I’ll be alright Myra, it’ll just be a couple of hours without them, my body won’t completely destroy itself in the meantime.”

“You don’t know that! You know that there are studies about how soon withdrawal kicks in after a missed dosage and I don’t really think—” Eddie’s phone vibrates again, with the sound of another incoming call.

“Hey, hey Myra? I’ll call you back I’m getting another call.” He hangs up on her without another word.

“Hello? Edward Kraspbrak speaking.” He says to the unknown number.

“Edward? Jesus, never thought I’d hear the day you’d prefer that over Eddie,” comes a deep voice from the speaker.

“Excuse me? Only my wife and my friends can call me Eddie. Who are you?” Eddie flips off a Prius in the other lane who just honked at him for swerving a little.

“I’m a friend, Eddie. Mike, remember? Mike Hanlon from Derry.”

“No, I don’t really remember.” Eddie feels a headache form behind his eyes, “hey listen, I’m driving right now so if you could call back—” Mike cuts him off,

“I need you to come back to Derry, Eddie, we all need you to. You made a promise to Bill, that summer. We _all_ made a promise; me and you, Bev, Ben, Richie, Stan, all of us.”

The memories hit like a car crash and he slams his eyes shut against the migraine — _Bill and his guilt, Ben and his crush, Richie and his jokes about how It doesn’t affect him, It It It IT_ — and he jerks, hard, and swerves directly into the cab in the right lane.

Eddie comes to a moment later, pressed hard into the airbag.

“Oh fuck me,” he mumbles to himself, scrabbling for the door handle and managing to grab it. He stumbles out, and looks at the wreckage of his car and the cab. Eddie remembers Mike all of a sudden, and stumbles back to the car door to grab his phone, where it was miraculously cracked but not completely busted, and even more amazing but the call hadn’t dropped.

“Eddie? Eddie? Are you ok?” Mike asks from the other side,

“Car crashed. I’m alright. Hey fuck you, when are we meeting?” Eddie says, hand brushing through his hair, watching an ambulance pull up around the curb. He starts to walk the other way.

“...” Mike is silent for a moment, before, “I planned to meet up tomorrow. Can you get here? _Are_ you ok?”

“I’m great, Mike, I didn’t even break an arm or anything.”

//

This puzzle is one of his favorites. A gift from Patty for their fifth wedding anniversary. The scenic depiction of overlaying finches displayed on the box had instantly captivated him at the time, and he’d sworn he would save it for a special occasion. As he gets older though, the idea of one big special occasion seems more and more elusive. Besides, isn’t it enough to celebrate having some time away with his wife?

“Should I just book it? Are you sure you can get off work?” Patty’s voice drifts over from the kitchen. They’ve been discussing vacation destinations for a while and finally settled on Buenos Aires. It’s a beautiful place, really.

“It’s summer, why not?” He responds, eyes still fixated on the puzzle in front of him. He’s almost done, just a few pieces left here and there, gaps revealing the table underneath.

“Okay! We are Buenos Aires bound.” Patty says triumphantly, finality in her voice makes him smile, and also makes him drop a puzzle piece.

He stoops down to get it, and notices the buzz of his phone through the glass tabletop. It’s mildly annoying, the whole point of this coming week was to get some time away from the calls and buzz of work. They can survive without him for a week, can’t they? But he picks it up and answers anyway. Old habits die hard.

“Stanley Uris speaking.”

“It’s Mike.” He doesn’t work with anyone named Mike, and a quick check of his phone reveals this is an unfamiliar number. The voice though, something in it makes him stay on the line.

“I’m sorry?”

“Mike Hanlon. From Derry.” It’s as though hearing that sends an involuntary shiver throughout his entire existence. He’s always known he grew up in Derry, but beyond that his memory has always been fuzzy in a way he never bothered to look closer at. The sudden burst of clarity fills him with dread, like a bucket of cold water being dumped over his brain, dripping down his spine but he tries to push past that and suppress a shiver. He’s suddenly aware he’s been silent for exactly five seconds too long

“Mike, god, yes. Sorry I don’t know why I didn’t…” He trails off with a nervous laugh. “How longs it been?”

“A long time. Twenty-seven years.” Everything hits him in a flash. _Derry, the Losers, It, the woman, the sewers, IT, the blood pact, the promise, IT-_

He stands abruptly and paces away from the coffee table, away from the kitchen where Patty can definitely hear him.

“It’s come back, hasn’t it? That’s why you’re calling me.” There’s a pause on the other end before Mike answers. There’s no point in trying to beat around the bush, Stan supposes. He knows, and Mike knows he knows.

“It’s starting again Stan. Bad things are happening.” Stan swallows hard against the rising panic. He doesn’t even want to _know_ what bad things could possibly mean.

“Did you call the others? I mean, what if they don’t come? I-”

“We made a promise, remember?” Mike cuts him off, not unkindly. “How soon can you get here?”

There it is, the question he’s been waiting for. The rush of fear makes him feel like he’s choking on his own tongue, making it impossible to really answer. Somehow his mouth keeps talking for him.

“Um. Well I-yeah I would need to do a few things. I would-”

“Tomorrow. We don’t have much time. I’ll text you everything you need. See you soon, Stan the man.” The softness of Mike’s voice right before he hangs up is almost comforting. Almost. He stares down at the phone in his hand and feels the pressure of twenty-seven missed years hit him. He can’t go back to Derry.

Some things in life are the ultimate truth. The sky is blue; Grass is green; Stanley Uris _can’t_ , _won’t_ , and will _not_ go back to Derry. But, he also won’t let his friends go into what’s essentially a death trap. Not without helping them.

“Stanley?” Patty’s calling him from the kitchen, by the tone of her voice she’s probably been calling his name for a minute. She looks worried. The smile of reassurance he puts on feels incredibly plastic.

“It’s nothing, baby-love. Just a...a last minute call from work.” He hates lying to her, but it’s not going to hurt her, not this one thing. “I’m going to take a bath.” He leaves before he really hears her answer.

It’s as though time stops when he enters the bathroom and closes the door behind him. He’s looking at the bathroom he and Patty designed together, she had preferred the tile, he remembers, but the bathtub had been his choice hadn’t it? It feels fitting.

He starts the bath before undressing, folding everything individually and methodically, surer of this decision than almost anything else in his life, down to his glasses and his watch. Everything sitting neatly side by side, except for his wedding ring. That is the last thing to come off, after he stares at it for a long second. Some little part of him is worried about it getting dirty.

The water feels a little warmer than he would normally like, but he ignores that. As he sinks in and rests his head against the tub's edge to stare at the ceiling, a clear memory breaks through.

_A summer day. The Losers were all standing in a circle in a grassy field just off of the barrens. Everything is warm and hazy and blurry except for Bill’s face. Bill looking at him with all the intensity of the world in his eyes, illuminated by the harsh summer sun. Bill asking him to swear as the glass tore through the skin of his palm and brought forth a spring of blood._

_He’d sworn. He knew he had._

“I swear Bill.”

The razor's edge can’t hurt more than that shard of glass as it slides against his left wrist. The slightly too warm water swirls red with blood as it spills out of him.

“Stanley? Are you oka—STANLEY!” The shriek of his wife pierces through the monotony of his own thoughts and makes him realize how badly the slice down his wrist hurts; the water feels like it’s boiling.

________________________It’s the last thing he hears for a long time._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's play a game called how many em dashes can we use in one chapter
> 
> hope the writing styles between my sections and jacks aren't noticeable, we both edited the others enough that they shouldn't be 
> 
> let us know what section was your fav! as for updating, we have no schedule and very little prewritten content so. however we also both are under quarantine


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